Tis a Women's World
by mellyb6
Summary: It's not always about Musketeers, lovers, mistresses, and dead wives who are actually alive. It's also about Musketeers and ordinary women. Family or friends. People you help. People who help.
1. Chapter 1

This series of oneshots was inspired by a brilliant Tumblr post about female representation in The Musketeers written by Nettlestonenell. (If you want to read the actual post, and you SHOULD, PM me and I'll send you the link). She gave me the go to let my imagination run wild with her ideas.

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Disclaimer: I don't own anything. These versions of the Musketeers belong to the BBC. I do own the original female characters.

* * *

Prompt for this story: Sisters, aunties who write you letters from home

* * *

 **Biscuits**

It's around midday when d'Artagnan stumbles into the sunny courtyard of the Garrison, sleep still hanging on his eyelids. Athos, Porthos and Aramis are all out of town on a mission. There is no reason to hurry. Today is not the day things will change and he will become a Musketeer. The best he can do is hang around Captain Tréville while the others are absent and show that he is indeed serious about his future.

Younger recruits are practicing sword moves against a handful of seasoned soldiers. Faces d'Artagnan has learned to know in the last couple of months. Too many names to remember them all, yet always smiling. He is becoming a feature in the place, albeit without a pauldron to stand at attention. He is welcome to practice nonetheless.

Musketeers are always busy, loud, boisterous and it gives him comfort. It feels like a home of sort : brothers jesting, shouting crude comments while one of them is being trashed in the hay, compelled to yield under the pressure of a sword tip to his throat. A round of drinks on him later tonight.

« Are you harmed ? » his fellow Musketeer asks, helping him to his feet, a sly grin on his face.

« You've only wounded my pride. »

« Shall you give it another try ? »

« I'd rather not. My purse would not be able to handle it. I'll pass. »

« Athos ridiculed me in much the same way one of the first times we sparred, » d'Artagnan confesses once the young soldier has reached the bench where his friends are sitting. Pierre is sprawled on the floor, his rapier forgotten to the side, a piece of paper in his hand. Lucas shakes his head, sheathes his own weapon, rubs the back of his neck, then collapses next to d'Artagnan.

« Perhaps one day we'll repay them the favour but I doubt it. »

« Never doubt yourself, that's what my mother always says, » Pierre advises, craning his head toward the two others.

« Mine said that only an idiot would engage in a fight he knew he would lose. »

« Nonsense. I've engaged plenty of fights I lost, » d'Artagnan replies, the vivid memory of his first encounter with Athos, Porthos and Aramis coming back to the forth.

« My point exactly. »

« Hey ! Watch your mouth ! » He shoves Pierre's side, annoyed at the joke, yet smiling in spite of himself.

« Watch yours. Here, have some biscuit. »

The banter is interrupted as a basket of sweet goods is thrust in his direction, Lucas beating him at a handful. D'Artagnan has not eaten breakfast. He woke up late, and sharing the table with his landlord while he boasted about fabrics and dress patterns was not his idea of a pleasant meal. The biscuit he accepts from Pierre is divine, butter and a hint of sugar.

« I had no idea you were quite the baker, » he exclaims around a moutful. Crumbs fall on his shirt and he picks them all carefully, licks his fingers then helps himself to more.

«I'm not. My sister sent them. »

« I wish I had a sister who could make such deliciousness. »

« I've got three, » Pierre explains. Perhaps offering the treats to his two friends is a bad idea. There may be none left soon.

 _It was raining yesterday and I was missing you. It is too quiet since you've been gone. Then I remembered how much you liked these biscuits when we were younger. It warmed my heart to bake them. I hope it will warm yours to eat them._

« Can they make some other cakes ? Because my brother will certainly not indulge me so. »

« I suppose. It was a nice surprise to receive them actually. » He waves the letter he has been holding. Leaving his home, his region to come to Paris and join a regiment of unknown men was a big leap for the young man. Not frightening, exhilirating. He had found at the Garrison as much as d'Artagnan had, even more. At night, the cold walls, the impersonal rooms, it sometimes closed in on him. The Musketeers were home, yet it was nice when a piece of his first home reached him.

 _Harvest season is hard without you. Father has had to ask some of the neighbours' boys to come to help. He would never complain about it though. I have never seen him grumbled less than since you've been away. He spends most of the night sleeping. Mother says it's a relief and she ought to send some money to thank you for the respite. (She enclosed two coins in the package but we are not to tell anyone about this.)_

He folds the piece of paper before Lucas can snatch it from his hand. He has already read it once, a comfort while waiting to engage in sparring, a reassurance that nobody is forgetting him, a support as Emilie professes how proud they all are of him.

 _You should have seen Father's face last Sunday after church. He was delighted to tell everyone who would listen that you had been commissioned into the Musketeers. You have shadowed any other major event in the village so far !_

« Is she pretty, your sister ? »

« Why would you care ? »

« Well, if she can bake so amazingly, I'm more than interested. »

D'Artagnan sniggers as Pierre stares at their friend, as if seeing him for the first time. His eyebrows come together, his eyes narrow, and his jaw clenches. He could almost pass for an angry Porthos.

 _Do you remember André ? I think you went to Sunday school with him ? He's been staying at the farm to help with the crops. Mathieu has taken a great liking in him, even though I believe he lingers more for Marie's sake than for our little brother !_

« My sister isn't marrying the pity excuse of a soldier that you are, Lucas. »

« Who said anything about marriage ? » Lucas' jest is answered by a low growl. Pierre would lash out on him at once if he was not holding the precious biscuits. But before he can consider asking d'Artagnan to keep an eye on them -a request which would most certainly lead to the other eating every one of them-, Lucas shoves his shoulder roughly.

« Have you seen his face ? He thought he could scare me ! »

« I could do more than scare you if I wanted to, idiot. »

Lucas is smirking, reaching for another treat, stuffing his face. His smile is so big, so innocent, so unlike the ones of experienced soldiers. They have hardly seen any battle. Joking, messing with one another, recreating the sibling complicity they have left at home, the complicity some of them never had before : those are the things which hardly make the Garrison sound like military barracks.

Pierre shakes his head at his friend's stupidity and his own gullibility. Emilie would say he takes matters too heartily.

 _There was a stray cat looming around the house and Mother would have sent it away because she said we did not need another one, but Mathieu started crying and shouting that it was lonely without you and that he needed someone to sleep in the room with him. So we have another cat. You have been replaced by a cat !_

« Next time, tell your sister to make a double batch of these marvels, » d'Artagnan requests, stealing another one before it is time for him to prove his value and engage an older Musketeer in a duel. His stomach is full of biscuits. His mouth tastes of wonderful butter and he feels heavier than he should before sparring.

He loses this fight, glaring as Lucas and Pierre shout at him that he is worthless and he will not be allowed sweet treats until his game improves. Nevertheless, there is a sheepish smile on his face as he returns to their side to nurse his pride.

There may be no one left at home to send him letters, no one to provide comfort and praise, no one to send goods. It does not matter to him, as long as he can find the same things at the Garrison. And who knows, perhaps next time Pierre's sister will come in person to visit and they will see whether Lucas is unworthy of her affection.

 _Mathieu named the cat Musketeer. It still is better than Pierre, is it not ? Yes, it was his first idea. He misses you. We miss you. We love you._


	2. Chapter 2

Prompt: The woman who mends your cape, launders your shirt.

* * *

 **Shirts and Cats**

There are loud noises in the corridor leading to d'Artagnan's room at the Garrison. He has only been staying there for a week, and even though he is used to most of the Musketeers' routine, this sounds different. He is used to sparring, swords clashing, doors banging, horses neighing, trampling the hard ground in the courtyard. He is used to pistol shots, yells, crude laughter, Captain Tréville shouting at the top of his lungs. He is used to snores, hard boots against wooden floors, windows being closed roughly, meowling cats begging for food.

He is not used to pattering. He is not used to children's giggles. He is not used to soft knocks and gentle voices.

He is half-dressed when he opens the door, his shirt hanging loose and no boots on.

« Yes ? » He blinks at the stranger looking up at him, the woman who is about to reprimand the little girl tugging on her skirt, but stops short when she gazes at his unfamiliar face.

« You're new, » she states, repositioning her heavy basket against her hip, one hand grasping the collar of a small boy's shirt to prevent him from entering d'Artagnan's room.

« I am. I received my commission last Saturday. I'm d'Artagnan. » He waves out of habit, a proud smile on his lips as he recalls Athos strapping the pauldron on his shoulder. He would sleep with it, but if the others were to find out, he would be mortified.

« I'm Paule. » She smiles back, the wriggling boy escaping her. D'Artagnan kneels to his level, stopping him. The child is suddenly uncertain to be so close of a person he does not know at all.

« And what's your name ? » There's a finger in the child's mouth and he takes his time, studying the soldier's face.

« Charles, » he says eventually after looking up at his mother.

« That's a fantastic name ! It's my name, actually. »

« You said your name was d'Artagnan. » And the soldier laughs at the boy's forwardness.

« It is. Charles is my Christian name. It's the best name, trust me. »

« Do you have a sword ? »

« Yes, I do. Would you care to see it ? » Charles' anwer is an eager nod, all shyness forgotten.

« We're not here to bother Musketeers. » He sticks his tongue out at his sister who frowns and crosses her small arms on her chest.

« We're not indeed. I apologize, he has always been fond of weapons, which is probably not a good thing. »

« As long as he doesn't get hurt, » d'Artagnan reassures the mother, smiling. « Did you need something ? »

« Oh yes ! I'm sorry. I'm the launderer and I wanted to see if you had any shirts which required... »

« Not for him ! » She's interrupted by Aramis who strides in their direction, a handful of dirty clothes in his hands.

« And why not ? » she asks as he dumps them in her basket, only to have them replaced by an excited little girl who claims all his attention and steals the hat from his head. There's genuine amusement in Aramis' eyes.

« He hasn't been here long enough to earn the priviledge of your services, Paule. »

d'Artagnan scoffs.

« And how do you suggest I obtain clean shirts ? »

« Well, you wash them yourself, of course ! » Aramis grins above a head of unruly red curls.

Paule slaps his arm, and almost drops her basket for her troubles. D'Artagnan rushes to her help.

« Actually, I would ask you to wash mine as well, but I wouldn't want to deprive our wonderful Paule of work. »

« Of magnanimous of you. »

« Aren't I the best ? Now, Angélique, why don't we go to the kitchen while your mother finishes collecting laundry ? I believe there's a new litter of cats. We'll find you one to take home. »

« You better not, Aramis ! » Paule's warning is lost as the Musketeer tips his hat at her, then strides back down the corridor, one child on his heels and the other hanging on his neck.

« Give me your shirts, d'Artagnan. »

« Absolutely ! »

His room is in a state of disarray. He does not own much but a few days were enough to misplace much of it. He only has three shirts, including the one on his back. He quickly locates the two others and places them gently on top of her basket.

« I'll carry it for you, » he offers, relieving her of the burden. He shuts his door, not bothering to lock it and they make their way down to the courtyard.

« I thought we were supposed to wash our own laundry. » She laughs at the remark, shakes her head.

« Would you ? » d'Artagnan gives her a sheepish look. He cannot remember the last time his shirts were actually washed. « Besides, I do need the money. And the children love coming here. It's much better than other barracks. »

« Yeah ? »

« Definitely. More lively, even if some of your fellow soldiers are menace. I should collect the children before Aramis convinces them to adopt more cats. »

d'Artagnan follows her dutifully as she makes her way around the place. She knows the Garrison better than he does and an hour later, the dirty shirts are forgotten in a corner of the kitchen as the Musketeers and the family eat breakfast, kittens running wild on the floor-tiles.

When Paule reaches the wash house afterwards and she empties her basket, it comes as no surprise that a white ball of fur springs out of a shirtsleeve, much to her children's delight.


	3. Chapter 3

Prompt: The woman who mends your cape.

* * *

 **Cape and Sword**

 _The thrill of the chase._ That's what the King said after he returned from hunting.

Porthos has to agree. It is thrilling to ride among the trees, to trample the ground and feel his horse move under its saddle, reins solidly in his hands and feet secured in his stirrups.

It is less thrilling when they are not chasing deers or boars, when it is dark, cold and raining. It is not thrilling when they are chasing bandits when they could have been back in Paris hours ago.

A lower branch lashes at his face, stinging his cheek, making him hiss in pain. His horse leaps forward and he has to pull on the reins to force it in the right direction. He can hear Athos shouting ahead, and d'Artagnan urging his own mount a few paces behind him.

And then they have to dismount because the bushes are too thick. Aramis mumbles and curses as his hat gets stuck in brambles. Athos tells him to shut it. There is movement somewhere in front of them and it's not long before they are engaged in a fight against the three men who have robbed the tavern up the road.

It's a short affair, really. Their opponents are inexperienced, have probably never seen Musketeers so close and it's almost ridiculous how easy they are to overcome. The difficult part is moving about when you cannot see a thing, that your boots and your uniform are tangled in branches, thorns stopping you from advancing or thrusting your sword the way you want.

Porthos lifts his hand, thankful for his gloves, takes a few steps toward the thief he has just pushed to the ground, the tip of his sword to his chest, and it should be over. Something prevents him from advancing and he swears in frustration, swaps at a branch, swirls around, his sword lashing out.

"Dammit!" He can hear fabric ripping, and the more he struggles to break free, the more it is torn apart. Eventually, he unfastens his blue cape, and finishes off his opponent by punching him square in the face. He should not have laughed, not when he was overpowered and so close to being made a prisoner.

"Whose idea was it to take this road on the way back?" Porthos grumbles once they have managed to tie up the three bandits and they have retrieved their horses. Clouds move in the sky and the moon offers some visibility. Aramis is scrambling to extract twigs from his hair.

"I told you it was a shortcut," he replies, avoiding Porthos' glare. It's not his fault if there happened to be a tavern which had just been robbed on the very road they travelled on. Three (and a half) Musketeers could not ignore the poor man's demand for help.

"A shortcut, right. We should have been in Paris three hours ago."

"The innkeeper will certainly offer us a free room given that we have rescued his stolen money," Athos grumbles, not at all pleased by the delay. He hopes there is a magistrate in the village to whom he can deliver his new burden. He does not intend to keep watch during the night to stop them from escaping.

* * *

It's early morning the next day when the four friends wake up. They crammed in the same room on the upper floor of the inn. A small room but enough beds for them all. In the weak February sunlight, they can finally assess the damage made the previous night. D'Artagnan's face looks as if it has been lacerated and he complains when Aramis applies some alcohol to clean off the blood. The others are unharmed.

"How on Earth did you manage this?" Aramis pulls on a tiny thorn stuck on d'Artagnan's neck, close to his right ear.

"I think I tripped."

"On roots or on your own feet?" Porthos jests. The younger glares, winces once more.

"At least I won't have to walk around wearing only rags." He gestures to the other's cape, thrown carelessly on a chair with the rest of Porthos' equipment. There's a large gash in it that he must have made with his own sword. Some of the buttons are gone as well.

"Shut it." But his friend is right: it does look like a rag. Not fit for a Musketeer. He groans. He only has one cape, and _it_ is cold. He will not go around on patrols without it, and wearing his parade one on a regular basis would certainly end in a disaster.

"Can I borrow some money, Athos?" He hates doing this, but he's short on funds and mending a cape is not his specialty. His friend rummages in his pocket, a coy smile on his lips.

"Juliette must love you. Aren't you her best customer?"

"Yes, how many times have you come to her in the last months?" Aramis chimes in, grinning like the idiot that he is.

"One too many. And she did tell me to take better care of my things."

"Oh! You're in trouble, then!"

"Who's Juliette?" d'Artagnan inquires, checking his face in a small mirror hanging on the wall. It's cracked and some pieces are missing but it's enough to assess the damage to his features. He can see Porthos looking at him behind his shoulder, Porthos cocking his head, thinking, before a bright smile illuminates his face.

"He doesn't know Juliette, does he?" Athos and Aramis shrug. "That's excellent! You're coming with me as soon as we're in Paris!"

* * *

d'Artagnan knocks on the door Porthos indicated, dubious and unsure. It swings open and he is faced with a elderly man who studies him from head to toe.

"Yes?"

"Hello. My name is d'Artagnan. I'm with the Musketeers. Well, I'm not a Musketeer myself, not yet, but..."

"Have you come to see my wife?" the man interrupts his rambling.

"I've been told to come and see Juliette."

"That's my wife all right. Got something to mend?"

"This cape, yes."

"Come in then. There's no point standing there in the street."

D'Artagnan is ushered into the dark house, and he follows the man down a corridor until they reach an animated room.

"Work for you, Juliette!" he shouts over the raucous of a woman trying to shush a baby. The young man takes it all in, the family gauging him curiously, the dog sleeping by the fireplace, the table set even if dinner appears to be over, and the woman who rises up from her seat, all smiles and open arms.

"Are you a Musketeer?" she asks him as soon as she notices the cape he cluches to his chest. "Not yet, but I help them sometimes and this happened." He sheepishly presents the blue garment and she shakes her head once she sees what the problem is. D'Artagnan had thought she would take it and he would have to come by in a couple of days. Instead, she makes him sit down at the table while she goes to find her thread and needles.

He is offered some warm soup and wine. Juliette's husband is more than happy to converse with him. He has a thousand questions, about Gascony, about farming, about cattle.

"Is this your cape?" Juliette asks at one point, interrupting the discussion of which crop is best.

"Yes," d'Artagnan lies.

"You're allowed pieces of a Musketeer uniform even if you're not one yourself?" It sounds as if she already knows the answer to her question.

"I borrowed it and I would hate for his rightful owner to find it in such a pitiful state," he lies again.

"Is that so? Would that owner happens to be named Porthos?"

"...Who?" But his face is flushed and she laughs softly, shakes her head and resumes her sewing. Porthos is going to give him hell.

"You are not a very good liar, young man. But you're a great friend."

"He seemed so afraid to bring it himself that I didn't know what else to do but help him," d'Artagnan confesses. It makes her husband, Marcel, chuckles.

"My wife does have this effect on people."

"Porthos is my main client, if you must know. I don't know what this poor boy does all day long, but his clothing never seems to last more than a few weeks before it needs mending."

"He should learn to be a seamstress himself."

"That would be a shame. We love having Porthos around. You tell him that next time you see him."

She pats his leg fondly. There are wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, laughing marks, marks of a well-lived life. Her eyes are gentle as she gazes at him and the way she hums to settle her grandson in the crib by her side tells him that she takes the best care of her family. She must be loved by everyone.

"Thank you very much, Madame," he tells her once she is done and she gives him back the cape. You can clearly see where it was mended, but the buttons look like they had never fallen off in the first place.

"Please, call me Juliette. They all do. And I hope to see more of you in the future, even if your clothes don't need my attention. Whose money is this? Athos'?" she asks after d'Artagnan drops the coins in her extended hand. She clutches it close to her chest before handing them to her husband who counts them carefully.

"How did you know?" He does not try to lie this time. Instead, he marvels at as well this woman understands his friends and their dynamics.

"I know my boys. Have a good night, d'Artagnan."

* * *

"Did she suspect anything?" It's the first thing Porthos wants to know as soon as d'Artagnan is back at the Garrison with the precious cape.

Does _Porthos_ suspect how much he cares for the woman's opinion? How much of a mother she is to him, to all of the helpless Musketeers coming to her? Does he suspect that she cherishes every single one their visits, whoever it might be? He must, because otherwise, he would not be so eager to learn of her reaction, of her attitude. It only took d'Artagnan one evening to understand it, and from he has gathered, the other soldiers are regular in Juliette's house. How could they not? She is sweetness impersonated.

"Not a thing," he promises, an innocent smile on his face. Porthos nods his approval.

"Excellent." And it takes d'Artagnan all he has not to burst out laughing.


	4. Chapter 4

Prompt: the young girl who brings the bread to the Garrison canteen.

* * *

First, there's anger. D'Artagnan cannot quite believe what Captain Tréville just told him. Labarge attacked his farm, made an example, destroyed everything he has. Or almost all that he has. Everything he has in Gascony.

Anger and disbelief. How is he supposed to live now that he has close to no money? No income, no commission in the Musketeers. How is he supposed to continue living in Paris when he should already be planning to go down South and attempt to assess the damage? Should he be ashamed that he does not want to make this journey?

Sadness that what his parents built, their entire life, their legacy, it might have been tumbled down, perhaps burnt to the ground?

Anguish at what is about to befall him now. How can he compete in the tournament and prove his value if he cannot pay the entry fee? How can he keep on renting a room at Constance's with no money? Her husband's threat and reproach in the morning still ring in his ears. It makes sense. Everything he said to d'Artagnan makes sense. He had not worried too much about it. There was no need. Not really. Not yet.

The need is overwhelming now. It's all he can think about as he listens to some Musketeers sparring, readying themselves to compete and find out who can be their champion. Soldiers d'Artagnan might never equal, not if he has to find another occupation, find a way to avoid being thrown in the street, penniless and landless.

There are burning tears in his eyes as he slides down to the ground, at the Garrison's gates, not caring if everyone can see him.

D'Artagnan has no idea how long he stays prostrated on the cold ground, mind whirling with broken prospects and possibilities, unknown future and dreaded decisions. It might be hours, or only a couple of minutes and then, there's a shadow looming above him and he has to look up.

"Why so sad?"

"It's nothing," he sniffs, and lowers his head quickly when he realizes it's Charlotte, the baker's daughter. He's seen her a couple of times around the Garrison, when she brings fresh supply of bread to the kitchen. Usually, she has to fend off a famished Porthos attempting to steal from her.

She's about his age, he thinks. Perhaps a year or two younger. But she's young nevertheless. So is he, after all. He's nothing but a lost farmboy, a country boy lost in a big city, with dreams bigger than what he is capable of accomplishing. Not without any resources.

"Who humiliated you this time?" Even though she seems to be mocking him, letting him know she's aware of much that goes on in the barracks, her tone is gentle and she actually kneels to his side once he sighs heavily.

It's worse than Athos pushing him in the mud while they are duelling. There's a man somewhere in Paris who stole everything he had, and all that the Captain can offer him is Justice. It could drag on for weeks, if not months. D'Artagnan does not care about Justice. Not this type of Justice, anyway.

"It's nothing," he repeats and he smiles, but his eyes are still red, and somehow, he cannot make her believe his words. He does not believe them himself.

Charlotte puts her full basket on the ground before sitting down next to him. Her dress is dirty and it's torn at the bottom in several places. The shawl on her shoulders has seen better days as well, huge holes in the wool rendering it rather ineffective to fight off the wind. Her brown hair is pulled up on her head, all tangled. There's soot on her cheeks, as if she has been spending too much time close to a fire, which she probably has. She does not mind.

"Bread?" she offers, taking some from under a coarse rag and breaking it in half.

"I've no money to buy it." She rolls her eyes at the answer. He's hungry and his stomach grumbles when he watches her take a bite.

"So? You'll pay it when you'll have some. Even if I don't think I'll remember." She winks and d'Artagnan chokes on a laugh.

"I don't know if I'll ever have money again," he confesses and this time, Charlotte stares at him as if he just announced he has decided to become a monk. It might not be such a bad idea after all. Monks have no need for money. He should ask Aramis about this.

"You've just gone from plain sad to overly dramatic. They really did wound you pride this time, didn't they? Should I threaten them with no baked goods to have them apologize?"

He shakes his head at her resolute proposition. It would be quite effective, he believes, if it was necessary. Which it isn't. He does not suppose she can bribe the King or the Cardinal with bread to have them focused on his case.

"It's not necessary, Charlotte. They're not the problem."

"Then what is? Have some bread." She's half-eating her piece, and when she thrusts some in his face, he stops denying her. It's still warm from the oven, it fills his mouth and makes him feel better.

D'Artagnan has eaten two whole baguettes by the time he is done telling her his sad tale. He is in the middle of a long rant about his multiple and hopeless troubles when she interrupts him, slaps his arm.

"Oi! What did you do that for?"

"You're an idiot, d'Artagnan!" she exclaims, and he looks shocked for a second.

"What?"

"You're an idiot, that's all. Of course you're angry and sad. It's your farm we're talking about. Of course you're mad that this man destroyed your property and that you've lost almost everything. But feeling sorry for yourself won't make it better. Do I complain about my life? Do I complain that I have to wake up at the crack of dawn to feed my brothers and sisters, to help my father, to fill in my mother's shoes? Do I complain that I hardly have any time to myself? Do I complain that I look dreadful and haven't changed clothes in weeks? Well, do I?"

"...No?" He does not actually know how to answer because she's so animated and it's the longest conversation they've ever had just the two of us, and she sounds like she is scolding a sibling. Perhaps she is too used to doing it at home, and since he's behaving like a scared little boy, she fell back into the habit.

"Exactly! I don't. And you know why? Eat some more." He accepts the food, not daring to contradict her. "I know that life isn't easy. I know there are bad days, when everything is overwhelming and I can't see how life could improve. But you know what? That's life. And there are always good days. I'm healthy. I have friends and family. I have people I can look up for help and support, and so do you. My mother's dead, too, I can't remember if I told you."

She had not.

"You have friends, d'Artagnan. Only a fool would believe that everything is lost forever. Nothing is. Not really. You've had your five minutes of suffering and despair. It's time to go back on your feet and stand up for what you want, be it bread or retribution for the way you've been wronged."

She takes a deep breath once she is done. D'Artagnan is merely gaping at her, letting her words sink in. Then he shakes his head, and his smile is a genuine one, albeit with a sad edge to it. He pushes himself off the ground, helps her to her feet.

"You're right."

"Of course, I am. Now, I should deliver this before my father worries that I've been gone too long."

d'Artagnan has seen Charlotte a couple of times in the past, yet he knew next to nothing about her. Do the others know so much about her life? Do they know she struggles every day, despite the never-ending smile on her face? They only see glimpes of her, she glides through their own busy life. He does not even know where her father's bakery is.

He waits for her while she takes the bread to the kitchen, kicking pebbles in the street, studying the best course of action for his own future. He still has no money, but he knows that it was stupid of him to think that his life in Paris was over. It might be the hardest obstacle he has had to overcome yet, he'll do it no matter what. He always does it.

He escorts Charlotte back to her home, only a couple of streets from the Garrison, and she rewards him with a small pastry, ushering him out before her father can see what she's done.

D'Artagnan munches on it on his way to confront the Cardinal.


	5. Chapter 5

Inspired by this prompt: The widow of a fallen comrade who travels to the Garrison monthly to collect her pension.

Coda-fic for S1 Ep 4: _The Good Soldier_

* * *

 **Fallen Comrades**

It's only been a couple of days since Marsac came back into Aramis' life and d'Artagnan decided to help him, thus provoking Constance's ire. He is still bewildered that she forgave him so quickly and did not throw him out of her house permanently. He is even more baffled by her desire to learn how to fight and shoot a pistol. It's a lie to say that he does not like spending more time with her. How is he supposed to avoid getting her hurt when she is always so eager and urging him to fight more fiercely? He does not think her husband would appreciate to see her covered in scratches. It makes her smile, though, and it is the best reward he can ask for.

She did not ask about what happened to the supposed "cabinet maker" who hid in her house. Perhaps she understood it did not end well from the look on his face when he came back after Aramis killed him. D'Artagnan himself has not seen the other Musketeers since. He had not spend enough time with Marsac to try to appreciate his true nature and mourn him like he probably should. The man assaulted Constance and it's enough to make d'Artagnan despise him.

He does not know how the others deal with the loss, if it even feels like a loss to them. It's one for Aramis, of that he is certain. In the short few months he has known Athos, Porthos and Aramis, he has always seen them as the best of friends, helping and relying on each other constantly. There is not a day when they are seen apart. Sometimes, one might be missing, but it is never for long.

Yet, the entire situation with Marsac has shown the deep scars running in the Garrison. It has shown him that loyalty can be questioned and pjeopardize the best of friendship. He has seen how affected Aramis was that Athos and Porthos were not at once ready to believe Marsac and to find out the truth. D'Artagnan knows his friend hurt then, and still may. Perhaps he should have gone to him, attempt to comfort him, but he felt out of place. He was not part of the Musketeers when Savoy happened. He still isn't; he's only lacking the proper commission, though. For the rest, it seems to him that he belongs on the premises. It's his rightful place. Among his friends, among the brothers he hopes he will one day have the chance to refer to as such.

It's a grey foggy morning when he eventually wanders back to the Garrison. It's bustling with activity, as usual, and it's enough to make him smile. He _knows_ that he belongs.

"There you are! We were starting to think that Constance had you locked up in the house."

"She wanted to throw him out," Athos corrects, filling a cup of wine for d'Artagnan when he sits on the bench next to Porthos.

"I thought it better to stay away."

"Tired of us already?"

d'Artagnan shakes his head, helps himself to the bread on the table. He surveys the courtyard, looking for Aramis, but he's nowhere to be seen.

"I didn't want to intrude. Where's Aramis?"

"Oh. That." Porthos frowns when he understands what d'Artagnan is talking about.

"He'll be fine," Athos states.

"Yeah. It's always been hard to think back on Savoy for him, and now that, but...yeah, he'll be all right." It sounds like he does not quite believe his own words, and it makes d'Artagnan a little sad for their friend.

"He _shot_ him, though," he whispers as if it is a secret not to be overheard.

The entire regiment knows what happened by now. They all know Marsac came back and tried to kill Captain Tréville. As far as they are concerned, Aramis killed a deserter, a man who once was their comrade but abandoned them in an hour of great need. Few wept for him, Porthos and Athos less than the others. Marsac's desertion had been a huge ordeal for Aramis, almost impossible to overcome and they had always blamed him entirely for it. His death finally meant that they could try to move on. It would take longer for Aramis to see it.

"It's what he wanted." d'Artagnan startles at the voice behind him, turning around to find Aramis standing there. There's a purple shadow covering one side of his face, the last reminder Marsac left for him.

He sits heavily on the bench, takes off his hat and puts it on the table. D'Artagnan does not know what to reply to this but none of the others say anything either.

"It's for the best, really. He was miserable, but now, he's with the others. It's for the best," Aramis repeats, forcing himself to be convinced.

He appreciates the look of concern on his friends' face. He has not seen them much since they buried Marsac. He has been seeking solitude, despite Porthos banging on his door at night to let him in. He should not stay alone when he is mourning. Aramis is perfectly aware he is the only mourning the latest loss to the regiment. Captain Tréville might be, as well, but he could not care less about this.

"Did Constance forgive you?" he asks, clutching the piece of cheese Porthos puts in his hand. He's not hungry. He has not been for days. The horrid news about Savoy is too much to digest in itself. There's no room or desire for actual nourishment. He plays with the food instead, settles his hands.

"Yeah. She's...well...she's asked me to teach her how to use a sword." Porthos bursts out laughing at his bemused face. Athos merely nods. It was only a matter of time before she did, after all.

"And how many times have you lost since then?" This time, d'Artagnan looks so offended by Porthos' question that it draws a chuckle from Aramis. Dry and bitter, out of place. It sounds wrong. He reaches for the crucifix hanging on his chest. He is spending more time than usual in church, atoning for what he's done, what Marsac's done, atoning for secrets of state and political intrigues which make him sick.

"Aramis!"

Four heads look up at the call, at the female voice, the sweet and happy tone. D'Artagnan marvels at how his friend's eyes soften and brighten up when he takes in the woman standing at the top of the stairs leading to Captain Tréville's office. The woman and the small child hiding behind her skirts.

There's a sad edge to his smile as Aramis stands up quickly, hat and cheese forgotten, but he looks genuinely pleased at the strangers' sudden appearance.

All the agitation of the last days has made him forget what day it is. It might be time for him to actually collect his commission as well.

"Hello, Mathilde." There is no question of impropriety as he hugs her fiercely, holding her close, drawing comfort from her embrace. She chuckles against his shoulder, yet hugs him back.

Every time he sees her here, it bothers him, because it is a painful reminder that her husband died all these years ago, in that forest, on the frozen ground, buried in the snow, slain because of the Cardinal and his plotting.

Every time she comes to the Garrison, to collect the pension she is entitled to, it sends daggers to his heart. This is the reason why he does not want to marry, does not want to have children. He cannot bear the idea of leaving cherished people behind if he were to die.

Her visit could not have come at a better time, though. Not many Muskteers are married, for reasons similar to his. When he had come back to Paris after Savoy, mind shattered, feeling that he should have died as well, there were not many people who understood what he was going through. Mathilde did. Her and the newborn François had left behind.

There had never been an actual agreement, and Aramis does not think that his fallen comrade would have expected more than a friendly visit to his widow. He felt compelled to help her, to make sure that she did not drift away, that she stayed alive, that she kept on taking care of herself, in spite of her broken heart. Aramis' heart had been broken, too, and his visits to her and the crawling baby had been a balm to his own suffering.

Aramis sometimes talks about his recurrent nightmares with Porthos and Athos, but they cannot understand, not really. They are supportive and listen because they know it's what he needs. They cannot relate to his emotions. Mathilde can. Back then, she would always listen sympathetically and when she shared her own bad dreams, they sounded so alike, it was unsettling.

He has not been visiting her as much as he used to in the first years. Perhaps he did not need to. He was definitely wrong. The warmth of holding her close settles him, slows his heartbeat and fills his brain with peace instead of hatred. If only for a few minutes.

He will not tell her what he has learned, she does not deserve it. She does not deserve the past to be disturbed. She might hear around the Garrison that Marsac was back and is now dead, but he will not be the one to bring it up. Mathilde has never resented his desertion. She knows what happened in the forest, she knows Marsac tried to help before he left. Aramis is the living proof of this.

"How are you?" she asks against his uniform, her breath fanning over his neck. The way her hands rub his arms, like a mother reassuring her child, tells him that she _knows_.

"It's for the best."

"He must have been miserable." She uses his words from earlier, and they are so atuned as far as this cornestone of their lives is concerned. He _will_ visit her more often.

"I'm afraid of what is happening to him now. With the others, with..."

"They're brothers. You're all brothers, Aramis. Everything is forgiven if it was done for a good reason."

" _If_ he's with them."

"Where else would he be?" She draws back to study his face, notices the deep worry in his eyes, and combs the hair which has fallen on his forehead. He does not dare utter his dread out loud. "Oh, Aramis. Marsac had been a good soldier before Savoy. You all were. You still are. God will not send him to Hell because of one mishap, how ever great you might think it was."

"I hope you are right."

She reaches up to hug him again. He allows himself a few seconds of respite to let all his anxiety pour out and dissolve.

"How are _you_?" he finally asks.

"We are fine. It's a bit chilly but this money will buy us some more wood for the fire so there's that. And it'll put bread on the table for the next time you'll visit." Aramis smiles sheepishly.

"I've been busy."

"I'm not blaming you. It's nice to see you finally feeling alive again. Well, not today, obviously, but in general. It would do no good to spend all your time with a poor widow. People would talk."

"People have been talking for years." Aramis rolls his eyes. For once, they could not be more wrong about his intentions. "Although you could find someone else they would like to gossip about. It's been five years, after all."

"I've got a wonderful man already," she dismisses his suggestion by putting one hand on her son's shoulder. The boy grins from ear to ear when Aramis crouches to his level.

"Have you been learning your letters, Alphonse?" A small nod rewards his question. "How about numbers?" Another nod. "Excellent! Would you care to show me?" Another eager nod. Aramis scoops him up in his arms, balances him on one shoulder and the courtyard fills with giggles.

"I'll be back in the afternoon," he announces to his three friends still at the table. They have been watching the scene and d'Artagnan is dying to ask for more information. He does not care for an elaborate one, he only wants to know who are these persons who managed to transform a pain-stricken Aramis into the delighted Musketeer who secures his hat on his head before striding purposely out of the Garrison, an excited child in his arms and a pleased woman at his side.

"Aramis is a mystery," he finally says once they have diseppeared in the crowd.

"That he is," Porthos agrees, shaking his head, yet relieved to notice the changes in his friend's behaviour.

Aramis will be fine.


	6. Chapter 6

Prompt: The serving girl who serves your wine at your favorite tavern.

 _ **Bring Some Wine**_

* * *

 **Part I**

Porthos should be ashamed to rob d'Artagnan of the few coins he has. He should. He's not. It's the first night they spend together in a tavern. Athos is slumped on his table, drinking his second bottle of wine. Porthos would go to him if the man had not almost been executed earlier in the day. Athos deserves whatever makes him forget tonight.

D'Artagnan deserves to be taught a lesson for almost having one of Porthos' best friends killed. Cheating him at cards seems quite a good alternative to dueling. Besides, it is rather funny and entertaining to watch him be confused. The young man does not seem to understand how he can lose so many games of cards in a row.

"You should have told me you were a master at this," he mumbles, reaches for his glass of wine to find it empty.

"Where would have been the fun in that?" Porthos answers, a sly grin stretching on his lips. He raises his hand to catch the attention of the serving girl, shaking the empty bottle in her direction to show they need more.

"Have you find yourself a new friend?" she asks over the racket coming from the other side of the large room, glass shattering to the dirty ground. More work for her, nothing she is not used to. She puts two bottles on the wooden table while studying d'Artagnan closely.

"This here is d'Artagnan," Porthos explains. "He tried to kill Athos yesterday." As far as introductions are concerned, d'Artagnan would have prefered a better one, especially as he notices how the young woman frowns then tilts her head in the direction of Athos' dark corner.

"It was a mistake," he corrects.

"And you're still alive to tell the tale? Impressive. You do deserve some wine." Porthos throws back his head laughing. D'Artagnan's cheeks take on a rosy colour, but later, he will say that it's because of the alcohol.

"That'll be ten sous," she adds, hand open, palm up, eyes fixed on Porthos and the pile of coins in front of him.

"Ten sous? Come on, Laure. I'm introducing our young friend to the innumerable Parisian pleasures. That should at least lower the price to eight."

"Ten."

"Nine?"

"Ten. Or you'll have to come wash the dishes tomorrow. My father hasn't forgotten the mess you made the last time you were here."

"That was Aramis' fault!"

"It wasn't Aramis who had cards up his sleeve, was it?"

"Are you cheating?" d'Artagnan exclaims suddenly, realizing why the other has been winning so easily. Porthos can only chuckle at the outrage in his eyes.

"Oh, honey. He's always cheating," Laure informs d'Artagnan, patting his arm. She snatches coins from the table while Porthos is busy fighting off a young Gascon who demands another game with shirtsleeves rolled up their arms so it will be fair. This time.

* * *

 **Part II**

It's the middle of the day. It's a bright day outside. Plenty of sunshine lighting up the inside of the tavern. It shines on the dirty glasses, the dirty bottles. It glimmers on the dusty tables and it makes a few patrons squint. Although wine and beer might have to account for that as well.

It's quiet despite the men drinking. Not too loud, not too crowded, a respite before the animation which will strike later tonight. Never a dull night when you work in such an establishment. Laure makes her way around the room, refills glasses, swats hands, gathers coins, picks shards of broken glass, wipes her hands on the once white apron tied at her waist.

"Can I have another one?"

She does not have to raise her head to know who the voice belongs to. He arrived a couple of hours ago, sat at his usual table, shielded from the sun, shielded from the outside world, left in peace by everybody else.

Laure glances at the two bottles lying on the table. One has clearly been toppled over on accident and wine is soaking Athos' hat. She picks it up and attempts to repair the damage.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm thirsty."

"Where are the others?"

Athos raises his head enough to glower, but she is not deterred. She sits on the chair next to him, hat still in hands, even if it's clear she can do nothing more to clean it.

"Somewhere."

"Certainly outside enjoying this fine weather. I remember Aramis saying something about pleasant walks in the gardens when it's warm and sunny. I would like to be able to do the same."

"Then you should."

"Some of us have to work for a living, Athos."

"I do work for a living, Laure. Which is why I can afford to buy wine. More, please."

"What about Porthos? Where is he?"

Athos shrugs, then throws his head back with a groan.

"I don't know. I know what you're doing. You will not send this son of yours after them so they can come and disturb me."

"I don't see what they would disturb. They would keep you company."

"I don't require company."

Laure looks offended as she rises from her seat, almost flinging the hat on the table. Athos is not drunk enough not to realize the effect his words had on her.

"I meant not their company. Not today. Yours is fine."

"Because I am the path to alcohol?"

"Laure, please..."

He almost has it in his mind to go to another tavern if she continues to deny him what he wants. But this is his favourite tavern and he knows his friends will find him nevertheless. Besides, he does not trust himself enough to stand up and walk somewhere else. He's fine here, in his corner, with his grief and his shame. And Laure is nice and understanding. She cares.

She knows there's no point in standing up to him for ever. She would rather have him here where she can keep an eye on him than to know him wandering the streets on his own. She pats his arm fondly after placing an already half-empty bottle in front of him. Athos grunts to thank her and pays her more than what the alcohol is worth for her troubles.

Porthos gives her even more a few hours later when he comes to collect his friend.

"It's not good for him to drink alone," Laure says sternly as Porthos secures Athos' arm around his shoulders to help him walk back to the Garrison.

"Don't I know it? He choose his moments well. Aramis and I were both on duty today."

"You should ask your new friend to stay with him then. He's not a Musketeer, he is?"

"Who? D'Artagnan? No, he's not. We should do this, indeed. What do you think?" Porthos asks Aramis who is sadly assessing the damage done to Athos' hat.

"This hat will be ruined if he doesn't take better care of it!"

"I feel so much better seeing how deeply concerned you are with Athos' well-being." Laure glares when Aramis whines. But he flashes her a bright grin, reaches to clasp her hand in his, and she cannot stay angry at him for long.

"Walk back with us?" Athos mumbles, voice thick and on the brink of dying away.

"Yes, why don't you walk back with us? Breathe some fresh air after being stuck in this damp room with him!"

Laure glances at the other clients, then at the other serving girl who will be more than capable of handling the work for a couple of hours. She loops her arm with Aramis'.

"Take some wine with you," he whispers hastily, and she tugs on his hair. He puts Athos' hat on her head, and her lively laughter is the sound which lulls Athos to sleep.

* * *

Takes place sometime after Season 1 Episode 3 Commodities

 **Part III**

It's incredibly loud in the tavern. The weather is dreadful outside; an early summer storm which has lurred many patrons inside. Laure does not mind: more customers, more money for her family. She does not mind running around the room with the other serving girls to attempt to fill all the glasses as quickly as she can. They are not trying to make them drink less.

She does not mind the work. What she minds a little is the racket and the headache it is consequently giving her. There is someone somewhere playing an out-of-tune instrument. They have been telling him to stop but it greatly entertains his friends so it has added a broken melody to the noise.

Musketeers must have been paid today because they are swarming everywhere. Too many to stop and talk to them all. She does enjoy it when she can take a break at a table from time to time, though. They are in a good mood, ordering plenty, requesting more food, laughing ridiculously. And for once, Laure is pleased to note that Athos is not his usual recluse self.

"They're going to empty the cellar if they keep this up," another girl sighs while she retrieves some bottles from behind the counter. Laure leans against the wooden table, wipes her forehead.

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all. But I won't be the one to announce it if it comes to such an end." She grins then hastily makes her way to the men playing cards.

There is a pause in the disastrous musician's display, soon replaced by thunder. The windows shine with the flash of lightning. It feels safe inside. If she could, Laure would join d'Artagnan and gaze out of the window at the rain pattering against the frame and changing the streets into swamps.

If she could, she would sit down with a cup of her own, head thrown back against the wall, eyes closed, and she would listen to what seems to be a very captivating story told by Aramis. He is describing something with his hands, ruffling his hair every few seconds. There is a sly smile on his face and at one point, Laure cannot help but chuckle when Athos deems it important enough to stop drinking to glower at his friend.

Unfortunately, she has to return to her other occupations after a while. Watching the action is sometimes better than taking part in it when her feet hurt, her arms hurt, and she has not sat down for hours.

"This must be good wine, indeed, if you've managed to lose so much so fast," she teases Porthos. His fellow soldiers are boasting around the table as he frowns in confusion after his most recent loss. His coins are quickly passing into the hands of the other players. His eyes are a little glassy when he stares at her grin.

"It's because I'm injured," Porthos explains, bringing his left hand to his shoulder, touching the scar which has not completely healed.

"That was more than a month ago!" Aramis exclaims, interrupting his tale.

"Shut up," his friend replies, rolling his shoulders out of instinct and actually wincing at the move. The other Musketeers mock him openly, and Laure supposes she should bring him some more alcohol to soothe the pain: both to his body and his ego.

"Hey, darling, bring some for us as well," a man from the table beside theirs asks her as she walks by. Laure nods to show she heard him, keeping a tab in her head. She also has to ask someone to fetch more candles. The orange halos are dimming quickly and if the entire room turned dark, it would be a disaster.

She almost stumbles on her way back to the Musketeers. There is a pair of legs stretched in front of her that she failed to notice. The bottles tumble on her tray yet she steadies them easily, thankful for a second for the firm hand on her hip keeping her from falling head first.

"Thanks," she breathes out to the man. His hand does not move, though, the dirty fingers clutching her dress, touching more than what is appropriate. Laure glares down at him. "You can let me go now."

"Is that our wine?"

"It's for them," she explains, cocking her head at Porthos who rubs his hands as he settles for a new game of cards. He rocks on his chair, a dangerous move in his current state of drunkeness. "I'll bring yours right after."

Laure wriggles some more, but his grip on her body is too strong.

"I'm sure they can wait a bit more. We're parched. We've been waiting forever." His companions agree, nodding ferociously. One of them makes an attempt at grabbing the opened bottle of wine. Laure twists in his direction, furious.

"Listen, this isn't for you. Wait your turn." The man stands up, his eyes burning, dark and angry. He's drunk too much, and he is not happy. She takes a step back, jerking free from the other's grasp. She hates when customers can't hold their liquor and turn their fury on them.

"No, you listen. We've paid and we..." He almost lunges for the wine, but Laure retreats further away. Her move is too hasty and the bottle falls to the floor, breaking to pieces. The man swears.

"See what you've done, stupid?"

"Excuse me? How dare you call me..."

"Apologize now," a stern voice commands in the dying racket. The musician has stopped playing, conversation are coming to a halt to concentrate on the argument. Laure casts a glance at the Musketeer flanking her left side, hands on his hips, close to his sword.

Aramis does not take his eyes off the other. All signs of his previous glee gone. The man squints in surprise, studies him then steps closer. Laure knows what is bound to happen if she does not let it go.

She is mad at the customer, thankful as ever that Aramis woudl stand up for her, just like his friends would. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Athos and Porthos ready to help their fellow soldier if need be. Yet, starting a brawl is not on her list of things to do tonight. It's not the first time someone has insulted her, certainly not the last. She will recover.

"Let it go, Aramis," she asks, putting one hand on his arm before kneeling to gather the bigger shards of glass. The rest will have to wait till morning.

"This is no way to talk to a woman," she hears him reply. There is a snort above her, and she feels someone else come to stand behind her.

"She's only here to serve us. If she can't even do that, I..."

"My friend told you to apologize. If you want to leave unharmed, I strongly advise you to do so." Porthos' cold voice washes over them all. Laure feels safer with them around, it softens the insults.

The two other men, as drunk as the one confronting the Musketeers, stand up as well. Laure decides it's probably better to forget the broken bottle entirely.

"Let it go, Aramis. Porthos."

"He called you stupid."

"He's drunk." She reminds Porthos.

"It's not an excuse."

"I'll be fine."

Aramis and Porthos share a look, conflicted between obeying the woman standing between them and their opponents, and teaching them a lesson. They know that if they start a fight, at least ten other Musketeers will join in. There is no question about who will win. But Porthos is still hurt, despite Aramis mocking him. And they don't want to make a mess that Laure would have to clean later.

Laure relaxes when she sees them turning around to go back to their previous occupations. They shake their heads, and Porthos grits his teeth as he casts a last cold glance at the three dunks.

Her cheeks are still flaming, but stupid men have never scared her before. She purposely walks by their table again.

"Musketeers' whore." It's only a whisper, yet loud enough for everyone sitting nearby to hear it. She gasps in spite of herself. Before she has time to balance her tray to slap him, the man is punched in the face, blood dripping from his nose. He blinks a couple of times until his vision steadies, only to be filled by an angry Athos, shaking his hand.

"I dare you to say that again."

All hopes of avoiding a fight vanish as Aramis gently pushes Laure behind him to protect her. He's trying to do the same with Porthos but it is ineffective.

The man spits at their feet.

"You're only proving my point." He smirks at Laure. "Whore."

"Who's calling my wife a whore?" In the sudden agitation, she had not seen him arrive. There's one hand on the customer's shoulder and he's swirled around. Before he has time to react to his new opponent, Jean hits him so hard he stumbles backwards into Aramis.

The soldier seems to have come to a new decision about their actions, because he simply tackles the drunk man to the floor, holding him in place while Laure's husband beats him. If she thought the Musketeers were bothered by how she was treated, it is nothing to how mad Jean is. She does not know who went to tell him there was a problem, or who even thought about going to the kitchen, but she feels better.

Even more so when Athos punches another man and d'Artagnan and his young friends (freshly recruits, she assumes) crowd against the last one, saving Porthos from injuring his shoulder further.

There is a general cheer once the three disrupters are thrown outside in the rain. They are barely conscious, and do not move from the puddle in which they land.

"My hero," Laure laughs sweetly, twining her hands around her husband's neck and kissing his cheek. He is still fuming, so are the Musketeers who came to her rescue. Aramis is picking dirty hay from his hair, Athos is rubbing his knuckles and Porthos is complaining that he would have been able to help if only they had let him.

"Thank you," Jean tells them, his arm looped around Laure's waist.

"Always a pleasure to help. Although I'm not sure Laure actually needs it with you around."

"It feels like I have my own guards. It should rain more often."

d'Artagnan laughs out loud.

"We should be paid more often," Aramis corrects. It reminds Porthos that he forgot the coins he won on the table and he hurries to make sure nobody has stolen them. Life has gone back to normal after their little interlude, even though people clear a path for the Musketeer when he marches to his corner.

"Wine on me tonight, Messieurs." Jean decides, steering his wife and her manly entourage to their table. He will settle the matter of payment with his father tomorrow.

A few minutes later, Laure is happily settled against the window, gazing at the rain and the condensation along with d'Artagnan. And when Aramis includes Jean in the lively revival of his scandalous adventures from the previous night, she finally understands why Athos was glowering earlier.


	7. Chapter 7

Prompt: That upstart tomboy from a few streets over from the garrison who's determined to follow you everywhere and ape your every move, confident she's someday to be made a Musketeers herself.

* * *

 **Tomboy**

Paris is such a big city, d'Artagnan almost always loses his way whenever he wanders by himself. So far, he knows the way from Constance's house to the Garrison, from the Garrison to the Palace, from the Garrison to a couple of taverns where his new friends are regulars. He can also manage to reach some shops by himself: a bakery and a blacksmith, mostly. He also knows where the market is, because he often accompanies his landlady on the pretence of carrying her purchases for her.

But whenever he finds himself on a patrol with the Musketeers, he stays very close to them. He must look like a stray puppy, hand at the ready close to his sword. He is not used to that much agitation and people. It is fine, he enjoys it, for the most part. And Porthos does not seem to mind it one bit.

He strides in the street with purpose, even if they don't really have one at the moment. They have delivered the letters Captain Tréville entitled them with and now, they are free to patrol the rest of the neighborhood leisurely.

The pauldron on Porthos' shoulder commands respect, and his young companion cannot wait to have a matching one. It's been months now since he arrived in Paris. It should not be long before the King finally notices how great an addition to the regiment he would be. For now on, he is content to show his determination in such mundane tasks.

Especially when they are offered some bread by an old woman behind her stall. Porthos insists to pay her, smiling widely at her, counting the coins in his gloved hand before passing them to her. She thanks him profusely, recommends them to God.

"Does it happen often?" d'Artagnan asks, breaking his bread and shoving a large piece in his mouth. Porthos talks around his own mouthful.

"What?"

"People giving you free things?"

"Priviledge of the uniform." He winks, straightens his shoulders. They are in one of the less well-off parts of the city. People here are wearing more rags than clothes, yet, they are usually nicer than the more fortunate ones. Porthos enjoys it here. It reminds him that he can help those in need and he will do it, whenever he is given the chance.

He likes being able to help. He likes it when he can frighten a thief or someone with bad intentions with only one stare. He likes it when his skills are put to use to defend helpless elders or children. Of course, he loves being able to protect the King and Queen, to parade in the Palace, to wear clean clothing, to have a proper roof, a proper bed, a warm place to call home. But helping others is the most gratifying aspect to being a Musketeer.

So of course, when they are only a few streets away from the Garrison and that someone shouts for help, he breaks into a run. D'Artagnan almost chokes on his bread in his attempt to keep up with Porthos.

"What happened?" Porthos asks the woman on the ground as he grabs her hand to pull her to her feet. She does not look harmed. She does look furious. Her hands are trembling, there are tears in her eyes, but when she speaks, her voice is steady.

"He took all the money I made this morning!"

"Where did he go?"

"I don't know! I was on the ground!" She snaps at him, and d'Artagnan cannot help but chuckle. This time, Porthos's cold stare is directed at him, and the laughter dies instantly. The young man swallows thickly and looks pointdly ahead, searching the busy street for the culprit.

"All right. What did he look like? Did you see his face?" Porthos asks instead, choosing to ignore the woman's anger. She pauses to consider the question.

"He was about his size, I suppose," she says, pointing at d'Artagnan. "He had long blond hair. I thought he was a girl, at first."

"There!" d'Artagnan exclaims, spotting the man at the end of the street. Then, he disappears around the corner. Porthos steadies the poor woman, promises her to return as soon as they have dealt with the problem, and he sprints behind his friend.

People know to move out of his way, even if he has to shove some to the side. It's always busy at midday, but he is taller than most so he has no trouble keeping track of d'Artagnan and the other. Suddenly, something crashes next to him, a roof tile shattering on the cobblestones. A shadow passes above him, light and swift, and the Musketeer curses.

"Damn it!"

One second of inattention and when he focuses on the stream of customers and passers-by, he has lost d'Artagnan. He has to slow down and check side alleys. There's another crash ahead, people looking up at the roofs and for once, Porthos is thankful for the intervention.

In an empty small street behind a tavern, d'Artagnan eventually corners the thief. They sound both short of breath. D'Artagnan is holding his side, his eyes strained on his opponent. The other seems more at a loss than anything else. Not very terrifying. However, before d'Artagnan has time to open his mouth and requests he hands the money back, a dagger is thrown his way. With such precision that d'Artagnan almost loses a few locks of hair in the process.

"I've got more so I suggest you let me go." If Porthos was here, he would deal with the criminal easily. But d'Artagnan has difficulty breathing. He stills draws his pistol. Until he remembers he left it at Constance's because she wanted to practice loading it.

Where is Porthos?

D'Artagnan holds up his hands, takes a couple of steps forward.

"There's no point in getting injured over a few coins. Hand them over and we'll let you go unharmed."

"You are unarmed. I've no reason to fear you."

"Then why are you walking away from me?" The young thief seems to realize what he is doing, and then his back is to the wall. There's another dagger in his hand immediately after this realization.

Before he has time to throw it, though, there's a shadow above them, someone shouts something incomprehensible, and the thief collapses to the ground. There is somebody on top of him, somebody who dived from the roof and effectively knocked d'Artagnan's opponent inconscious.

"Thank you, whoever you are. But I could have managed on my own."

"Oh yes, you seemed to have everything under control." The sarcasm might have offended him. He is more shocked by the soft tone of voice. Definitely not male.

"Who..."

"Are you out of your mind?" Porthos exclaims, sliding to an halt next to d'Artagnan. He does not appear to be surprised by their new companion. Instead, he sounds mad. "Why would you jump like this?"

"I saw Aramis do it once and thought it was a good opportunity to try." The girl stands up, dusts her trousers, and d'Artagnan cannot stop looking at her clothes. From the boots to the shirt, she looks like a regular boy. Well, she almost looks like him.

Porthos curses.

"Aramis is an idiot. And he did hurt his shoulder that time."

"I must be more agile than he is then." She rolls her shoulders in an unlady-like way to show she is absolutely fine. Then, she grins at Porthos. He shakes his head, looks at her with angry eyes, but kneels to retrieve the woman's stolen money.

"Don't do it. Ever," he commands. "Your father would kill me."

"Ah, that's something I'd like to see!" she snorts, bending down to gather the dagger the thief has dropped in his shock. D'Artagnan is still staring at her attire, at the hat she gathers in her small hands, at the sword at her hip. At her short hair.

"What happened to your hair?" Porthos demands, noticing it at the same time.

"I cut it. It was getting in the way."

"Coralie..."

"What? It was! I couldn't duel properly."

"That's because you're not supposed to! Damn it, girl!"

"Hmmm, Porthos?" The Musketeer wipes his head toward d'Artagnan, as if he had forgotten he was there.

"Ah, yes. D'Artagnan this is..."

"I'm Coralie," she interrupts, thrusting her hand at him and he shakes it out of habit before he remembers you don't greet girls in such a fashion. Especially not girls you meet for the first time. "Are you a Musketeer as well?" But he does not need to answer because she glances at his shoulder, sees no pauldron and looks disappointed. "Never mind. You'll be one soon if you're patrolling with Porthos. We'll see each other often, then!"

"Uh...I don't understand," the young man admits. Porthos is still shaking his head, cursing under his breath, all the while tying up the thief's hand behind his back. He is slowly coming back to his senses.

"I'm training to be a Musketeer," Coralie explains as if it is the most natural thing in the world.

"But you're..."

"Too young? I'm almost eighteen."

"...a girl."

"So?" she challenges. "It did not stop me from rescuing you." She blows on the unruly short curls falling on her face before hiding them under her hat. Her stance is provocative, hands on her hips, legs parted in an indecent way. After he closes his eyes to shake the vision away, d'Artagnan realizes she is mimicking one of Porthos' signature postures. And he cannot help the smile spreading on his face.

"Absolutely. But...are you allowed to become a Musketeer?"

"No, she's not."

"I'll be the first one. And one day, I'll even be their Captain."

"The closest you'll come to belonging to the regiment is if you marry a Musketeer."

Coralie makes a disgusted sound at Porthos' suggestion. He knows how ridicule it is. It's a running joke between them. This girl has been shadowing him from almost his first day in the Musketeers.

He was patrolling with Aramis and a couple of others when he assisted her brothers. Their horse had lost a shoe and was unable to move, thus blocking the entire street with their cart.

The soliders had made a great impression on the entire family, but no one could have anticipated the effect they would have on the oldest daughter. From that day on, she would constantly sneak out to hang around the Garrison, using a stick as a sword and following the men whenever they passed anywhere near her house.

She was stubborn, perhaps as stubborn as Porthos was. Nothing they would say would make her changer her mind. She would learn how to fight, going out in broad daylight dressed as a man, much to her mother's shame. Secretely, it made Porthos, Aramis and Athos laugh. They applauded her audacity, even though she often put herself in dangerous situations.

"Marriage is for the weak."

"Did you tell your mother that?" Porthos does not need the answer to know that she must have. He checks that they have not forgotten anything in the alley then they start to make their way to the closest court house.

"Why don't you make yourself useful and give her money back to this poor woman?" he requests after a while, putting the purse in Coralie's hand. She frowns.

"And miss all the action?"

"We don't always fight. Being a Musketeer means..."

"Helping others, yes, I know," she finishes for him.

"Besides, if I ask d'Artagnan, he'll only get lost on the way back," Porthos adds. He flashes a cheeky grin at his offended friend. The girl stands taller, ready to laugh at his expense, which she does.

"I'll be honoured then. I'll stop by later to hear the rest of the story!" she calls out as she strides away, ignoring the many stares she receives. She is so confident, so out-of-place in the world. D'Artagnan should introduce her to Constance.

"That was something," he concedes when the two men are alone with their prisoner.

"Did you think you were the only one eager to join us?"

"Of course not, but that. I'd never imagine that."

"Isn't that right. Now, come on. The quicker we deliver him to the authorities, the quicker we'll be back at the Garrison. And the quicker we can watch Coralie humiliate you at sparring."

d'Artagnan dismisses the idea, yet the shadow of a doubt passes in his eyes, enough for Porthos to mock him the rest of the way.


End file.
